The Wanderers

by Tim Pears

  ‘If a filly is entered,’ Arthur Prideaux said, ‘the colts have to carry an extra weight.’

  ‘Don’t you think,’ Alice said, ‘this principle might be applied to human affairs? A little handicap where necessary, so that men and women may compete for the same prizes?’

  ‘For the more significant prizes,’ Arthur said, ‘there need be no handicap.’

  Lottie watched them. She did not quite follow their conversation. It occurred to her that her father and Alice Grenvil were speaking in some kind of code. She saw Alice blush. And all of a sudden Lottie understood that Alice was not the chaperone here. Lottie herself was. The girl turned and pushed her way through the throng, away from the stand and across the course to the vast and bustling interior of the horseshoe-shaped track.

  4

  Though the first race had already been run, people were still flooding in. Lottie watched the free-for-all between vehicles drawn by horse and those powered by combustion engine. Four-in-hands driven by military-looking men in boldly checked trousers. Landaus, brakes, broughams, chaises, gigs, brightly painted dog-carts. Open-topped omnibuses, their jostling passengers swaying on the top deck. A convoy of black taxicabs. A motorcycle ridden by a man wearing goggles, with an enclosed sidecar, presumably bearing his passenger, weaving in and out of the other vehicles, startling horses.

  The smells of cooking drew Lottie on to the food stalls. Hot fat sizzled and spat, savoury sausage fried in one pan, onion in another, over gas-powered flames. She swore they used methods of cooking that intensified the smells for they were unbearably enticing. The stalls were in reality ingeniously constructed carts, only the wheels betraying their mobility. They sold beef-steak pies and kidney puddings. Ham and beef, pork pies, cold sausages, hard-boiled eggs. One advertised baked sheeps’ hearts. Another stall called itself a delicatessen, and sold sandwiches made of sardines, smoked salmon, German sausage.

  Lottie watched customers purchase penny slices of batter pudding, over which the stallholder poured a spoonful of pork gravy. People turned away to eat their pudding and how gravy was not spilled upon their clothes or shoes she did not know. She could resist no longer and bought a slice. It tasted coarse and delicious.

  The smell of fish mingled with that of meat. There were oysters and fish sandwiches. Fried fish, and fried fingers of potato, wrapped in paper. When people had paid they took salt with finger and thumb from a box on the counter and sprinkled it on their food. The girl had not heard of many of the delicacies offered. Tripe and onions. Eel jelly served in a cup with a spoon. One stall sold eel pie. The proprietress lifted the lid of a metal bin before her and took a hot pie, ran a knife around its dish and turned the pie out on to a piece of paper for each customer.

  Some food vendors had no stall but merely a barrow. One sold peanuts, another baked potatoes. Had they walked all the way from London to Epsom?

  There were drinks – yellow lemonade, ginger beer, coffee and tea – and sweets. Hot apple fritters. Candy floss being spun from pink sugar, the air around sweet and sticky. Dark red-coated toffee apples. Lottie bought herself a bag of bullseyes.

  There were beer tents. Marquees. Boxing booths. A sprawl of tents across the Downs. She heard a snatch of military music from a brass band in the distance. A barber had a stall composed of a small banner on which was painted his prices, a box for the implements of his trade, a bowl of water and a single chair. Upon this sat a customer whom the barber shaved. Lottie looked down and saw straps hanging from the two back legs of the chair and understood the barber carried it from place to place upon his back.

  A lunch party sat on chairs around a dinner table. They had eaten well. The table had been laid with a full service on a white cloth, but now empty wine bottles stood amongst the detritus of the meal. A man dressed as a clown entertained the diners with slapstick, though he appeared to have drunk as much as they and was not funny.

  In the middle of the carnival was a fair, far larger than the one that had visited Taunton last year. Carousels, boat swings, dodgems – all powered by steam engines that hissed and whistled with a smell of hot oily vapour in the air. They issued without warning small black clouds of soot that settled on the summer dresses of those who passed too close by. Lottie forgot about her companions, and the races they had come to watch. There were sticks to be hurled at coconut shies, a penny a throw. Rifle ranges, darts aimed at playing cards, hoopla stalls. There were bearded ladies. Snake charmers.

  ‘Guess your age, darlin?’

  The man had a drooping moustache.

  ‘Give us a penny . . . money back if I get it wrong.’

  The girl was sure that he would for she was tall for her age, taller than most full-grown women. She took a penny from her purse and handed it over. He looked her up and down, then stared into her eyes. Less judging her physiognomy than peering into her mind and finding there what she hid. Mesmerism, it was called. He said, ‘Fourteen.’ Lottie nodded, and moved away.

  A woman in some kind of uniform handed the girl a leaflet for the Temperance Society. Perhaps Lottie looked like a precocious sot. She joined a group who stood before an Open-air Mission. A woman held a placard that stated, Behold the Lamb of God. A man with a bulbous nose stood on a crate and promised eternal life to those who gave up drink and gambling and took up the way of the Lord. A punter yelled out if he was so wise, did he have a tip for the Diomed Stakes about to be run? Another, did he wish to be stuck for eternal life with a mug like that? And other such ribaldries. People’s smells – perfume, sweat, tobacco smoke – grew stronger as the crowd pressed upon her.

  Two children stood, seemingly on show, the girl’s dress and the boy’s suit decorated with lovely patterns made of mother-of-pearl buttons. A woman festooned likewise passed a box around requesting contributions for the London Hospital. The children appeared bemused by the attention though they must have been used to it.

  When she saw Herb Shattock pushing slowly through the crowd towards her, the girl thought that he would see her. But he was deep in conversation with the largest man she had ever seen. This must be the one of whom Shattock had spoken. Though so large as to appear an invalid, the man walked with a comfortable gait, his body rolling from side to side, and people parted to make way for him. The pair passed close to Lottie without seeing her and she watched them disappear.

  Gypsy women sold lucky charms, nosegays or posies of wild flowers, purple heather. One stood in front of the girl and handed her a sprig of white flowers. ‘Tell your fortune, love?’ she said. She wore a blue and yellow skirt, and a red shawl wrapped around her shoulders. ‘Real Romany, mind, not like half a them there, only the likes of us’ve got the foresight, love.’

  Lottie felt impelled to pull away but equally to stay. ‘All right.’

  The woman took her hand. She studied it. She shook her head and looked up and into Lottie’s face. They were the same height. The gypsy woman had black eyes. She said, ‘You’ll see him again.’

  ‘Who?’ the girl asked.

  ‘There’s no doubt about it, he’ll come back. It’s not over, not by any means.’

  ‘Who?’ Lottie said, but the gypsy let go of her hand and said a penny would do it, she was glad it was good news she could see. The girl gave her a coin.

  She climbed the hill. Families with prams and baskets and umbrellas sprawled on rugs with their picnics. Many had come the night before, her father had said, parked their carts and pitched their tents on Epsom Downs.

  Some spoke with an accent the girl supposed they’d brought out of London. She had heard it the night before, on arriving at Paddington, and again this morning. Unlike the West Country burr of those on the estate and round about them, whose words issued naturally from the speaker’s lips, it seemed to her that these cockneys, if such they were, had to contort their lips to force the words out in order to sound as strange as they did.

  At the top of the hill Lottie looked down on the carnival below her. Turning east, London sprawled across the land. She co
uld make out Big Ben. And a great church . . . was it St Paul’s? She could see the Thames, threading its way into the city. And that was surely Windsor Castle, to the west.

  ‘Ere, darlin, you lost, are ya?’

  The young man stood swaying on the sloping ground. His friend pulled him upright and said, ‘Come with us, girl, we’ll take you ome.’

  The first man appeared to find this suggestion hilarious. ‘Yeah, we’ll take her ome, Billy, won’t we?’

  Lottie turned and walked away. Within a few strides they had caught her up and now accompanied her, one on either side.

  ‘You don’t want to be on your own up ere, girl,’ said the comedian. Billy. ‘You can stop worryin now, though, you’re safe with us. Ain’t she, Tommy?’

  ‘Yeah, you stick with us, darlin.’

  ‘I’m all right, thank you,’ Lottie said.

  ‘No, you come with us, girl,’ Billy insisted. He had hold of her right arm. The other man, Tommy, gripped her left arm, pinning it to her side. If he had been drunk, he was no longer. They marched across the hill, through the crowd, where to she could not see and did not know. She was not sure if she was walking. It might have been that they had lifted her from the ground and carried her away, and her legs though moving had no say in her ambulation.

  The girl attempted to struggle but her body would not obey her. She wished to cry out for help but she could not. Her voice did not work. She saw men, women, children as she passed them and implored them to come to her aid, but the plea went unspoken. They did not see her, or if they did saw only three friends strolling.

  Lottie could not understand it. She had not known fear of this kind before: induced by human beings. She had not thought that she could be scared of other people. Only of death and who it took. Yet this was a paralysis, and she was terrified. The men smelled of beer, their clothes reeked of tobacco and sweat. Then it was as if she had come to life, yet without knowing it, for she felt the men beside her shoving and writhing. Then suddenly she was free. Stumbling forward, the girl turned and saw Herb Shattock holding each man by the hair of his head. He swung them towards each other, letting go of their hair and sliding his meaty hands around their skulls before he cracked them one against the other. The impact made a sound like that of croquet ball and mallet meeting. The two men staggered. One bled. Shattock struck one upon the chin with his fist, then the other likewise, and each fell to the ground and lay inert.

  The girl stood and stared from the bodies on the ground to her father’s groom. He breathed deeply, his mouth closed, chest rising and falling, as he surveyed his victims. Then he looked at the girl.

  ‘Let’s get you back,’ he said. ‘The master’ll be wonderin where you is.’

  Herb Shattock indicated the direction in which they should walk. He headed that way and she followed and walked beside him.

  ‘I heard rumours a trouble,’ he said. ‘More layabouts than usual, that’s for sure. There’s more bobbies but not enough. Down the Rubbin House more n likely.’

  Lottie’s legs felt weak but as they descended the hill her strength returned. So too did her voice. ‘I don’t want to go back,’ she said, and stopped walking. Herb Shattock did likewise. ‘Not yet.’ She frowned. ‘I want to watch the Derby with you.’

  ‘We should get you to your father.’

  ‘Please. Nothing will distract him from the race. We’ll go directly after.’

  Herb Shattock looked around him, as if one amongst the crowd might arise and offer him the answer.

  He nodded. ‘All right, Miss Charlotte,’ he said. ‘Come along. They’ll be almost off.’

  5

  They walked fast down the hill, through the crowd, past the tents and food stalls, hucksters and entertainers, Herb Shattock not breaking stride and Lottie having to trot periodically to keep beside him. As they drew closer to the racetrack the crowd thickened, and he forged a path through the throng that she could not. She found it more sensible to drop behind and follow in his wake, holding on to his jacket. She glanced up and saw the sky had clouded over somewhat, though the afternoon was still bright and there felt no chance of rain.

  They approached the course. The groom did not slow down but pushed on, easing people out of his way, the girl clinging on to him. Some complained at being so manhandled or of the breach of etiquette but Shattock paid them no mind. Soon they reached the rails and he turned aside to let the girl squeeze past him. He stood behind her. The stand containing her father and the others was on the opposite side of the track. A line of horses and riders had come out and the first walked past directly in front of them.

  ‘The king’s horse,’ Herb Shattock said. ‘Leading them out onto the field. Ridden by Herbert Jones, what won it twice before for Teddy. You might recognise His Majesty’s colours.’

  The royal silks: the purple body of the shirt, with scarlet sleeves. The black velvet riding cap with a gold fringe. White breeches and white silk scarf. Lottie watched the horses walk up the course, one after the other. There were fifteen runners. She asked the groom which was the one her father had a stake in, and he said it was the one in blinkers. He might not look like a savage but he was, and had no chance. The jockey, Edwin Piper, was good but not top notch. He was due to ride a different mount, Knight’s Key, but that horse was scratched. Shattock did not know who had been jocked off Aboyeur to let Piper ride him.

  He gave a commentary in Lottie’s left ear. The favourite was that beast, Craganour, ridden by the Yankee Johnny Reiff, glaring at the crowd as if to defy them to boo him. Both he and his brother Lester had been warned off some years previous, had had their licences revoked, for pulling their horses or some such dishonesties, and were disliked by a good few punters. But Johnny was not merely a good rider. He knew how to win, and that made him popular with many more.

  Lottie asked Mister Shattock to point out others. Which jockey was her father’s favourite, another American? That was Danny Maher, there on Lord Rosebery’s horse, Prue.

  When the horses had passed out of sight the groom and the girl studied their racecards. She said that Aboyeur was a beautiful bay colt. She liked the white streak down his face, and did not believe a horse was made bad. Trainers made them so. The groom smiled and allowed she might be right. Aboyeur and the favourite Craganour, of which he had heard nothing bad said, were sired by the same stallion, one Desmond by name.

  ‘Then they are brothers,’ the girl said.

  Herb Shattock nodded. ‘Half-brothers, yes.’

  ‘Then I should like to bet on both of them.’

  They squeezed back out of the throng and he took her to a tic-tac man who stood beneath a large banner bearing his name, Henry Bradberry. He stood making hand signals like some kind of dance designed only for the arms. She could not see to whom he gesticulated. Mr Shattock took her money and put it down for her equally on her father’s horse and on the favourite, half a crown each way.

  They returned to the rails near the finishing line, the swarthy groom once more pushing his way through, to the consternation of those ahead of him, and waited. The horseshoe-shaped racetrack stretched for almost one mile and a half. The groom told Lottie that from the start it bent slightly to the right but then curved around to the left, rising over one hundred feet. Then it would come down again a little to Tattenham Corner, the first place they would be able to see the horses. The girl leaned over the rails and peered to her right. Herb Shattock said that, as she could observe, the surface was cambered, the inner rail upon which she leaned, appreciably lower than the far one. Then the track came downhill from the Corner until the final half-furlong, where it rose a fraction once more towards the finish right there in front of them.

  Lottie could not make sense of what he said nor what she saw. She turned and said, ‘But why? Why do they not flatten the course and make it perfect?’

  Herb Shattock smiled and said, ‘Then it wouldn’t be the Derby, Miss Charlotte.’

  Lottie looked around her. All were excited as she was. An odd
agitation shared by so many strangers. The groom reached over her shoulder and gave her his binoculars. She thanked him and looked through the lenses for her father and Alice and Duncan Grenvil, in the stand on the far side of the course, but could not find them. Then she realised that those around her had gone quiet. All were facing to their right. She looked too but there was nothing to see. Then she heard a sound. It was that of people shouting, yelling, cheering, in the distance. Then she saw movement on the track, blurring into view down around Tattenham Corner. She raised the glasses to her eyes and adjusted them and saw the horses coming.

  For a long time they did not seem to draw closer, whether because they were coming more or less directly towards her or by an effect of the glasses she did not know. There were many of them, nine or ten, seemingly all packed together. Then she identified her father’s horse, Aboyeur, in the lead. Herb Shattock told her he thought that was Craganour coming up outside. Others were gaining on the inside. By now spectators all around them were yelling but the girl could not hear what they said for she was too intent upon the sight in the circular frame of her vision. Suddenly Craganour lurched across, bumping into Aboyeur, causing him to veer towards the rail, hampering those coming up the inside.

  Was that allowed? Surely it was not. She watched. The jockey Edwin Piper struck Aboyeur with the whip in his left hand, causing his horse to lurch to his right and into Craganour. As he did so Aboyeur reached out his neck and bit or attempted to bite his brother.

  Now the jockey of Craganour, the American, whipped his own mount. He held his whip in his right hand, and so drove his horse back towards Aboyeur. The horses’ hooves disappeared as they hit the dip, and then they came rising up for the final hundred yards, both jockeys thrashing their horses, bumping them repeatedly against each other even as others on either side drew closer to them.